Shards
by KhamanV
Summary: Shards is a series of stand-alone Ben-centric vignettes, usually dealing with his psychology in some way. Now in a final seventh segment, where fragments of his diary reveal the strange dream of an unbroken child and the thoughts of a broken man.
1. Pages

1.

_Pages_

"_Faith, here's an equivocator, that could swear in both the scales against either scale;_

_who committed treason enough for God's sake, yet could not equivocate to heaven." ~The Porter_

_*  
_

Oct 2005 – Iraq

_Strange, actually, to put pen to paper and know that no eye lingers above my shoulder. Strange and freeing and yet entirely managing to underscore that which is less desirable to ponder. It's easier to be the good soldier under the eye of a watchful 'god'. Once Man has stepped into strange lands, the whispers grow louder, the darkness colder, the hiss of the sea becomes menace._

_I wonder if that's how they felt, those first nights on our unwelcoming rocks. I think about that sometimes, though I know it would surprise them to know that I think it. Alienation, a rebirth into a life like nothing expected. I understand, though I have had no time, no room for sympathy. And they will likely never know that I understand. Such is the way of it. And such is the way of pointless introspection. I always did figure there'd be time enough for it eventually. This book of pages even smells differently than my others. And it will be this one I burn first._

_All good sorcerers do, I suppose._

_Introspection. And yet, avoidance. I write these words to avoid writing other words and to avoid thinking and here – let me stop my egoist playing and confront._

_Poor Alex. I failed. If there is a hell beyond the island – and here, just barely beyond J's consistent eye let me say now that the island __itself__ is enough my own hell (a truth that R would damn me for, but damn him first) – but if there is such horror beyond and I condemned to it, here is why. I take the rest of it as my own burden, I have ever known and accepted my responsibilities, unasked for but carried, but she -_

(here the ink is blurred)

_It is possible to keep innocence on the island, I think. She was the closest to it. And she has been sacrificed through my failure. I must steel myself now. C will paint me with what he did to her, and I must deny it, and I dare not, alone out here, allow myself to think that he is right. Not now. There is too much to be done._

*

2007 (date left illegible) – Russia

_The work with S has progressed nicely. I believe this is the domino effect that I need. If I had been left with better specifics, I would know for certain. There is a risk that I have pushed too far. This is what backup plans are for, at least, though I am growing weary of harboring and nesting them. They are the only children I have now, my schemes. At least they never leave me._

_Have bought a new hat. It is perhaps a little ridiculous, but then, so are the times we live in and the roles that we are set to play. I'm allowed my small jokes, even if no one else will understand._

*

Dec 2007 – California

_The rest of my odd little Goldberg device is now set in motion. What C did, I have altered. That much is always easy. He builds such architecture, and with a gentle prod it warps around him. It was a good lesson, learned early and well. He does not adapt as freely – if he did, this might have all ended much earlier, though who can say to what end? Well, someone could, and I'd like to not take the night to think on it too much. I've done more than enough of that lately. Should all this work well, then the time of introspection is over. I have weighed my own heart and find – what? I do not know. It is not for me to judge or forgive, is it? There are methods enough for that, and I am set for them._

_I'm sorry for what I did. But the tale can't crawl towards its conclusion without betrayal and sacrifice. It occurs to me, bleakly, that Judas and Brutus rhyme, if poorly. Tomorrow I will begin to go and tell the others – and there is a loaded word – what was done and what must now be done. I will tell them the truth, though they won't hear it clearly until later, and still they will damn me as a liar. Fair enough. Moral relativism and meta-ethical considerations aside, I cannot argue their perspective._

_Had I the courage to embrace cowardice – and I argue that my phrasing is not fallacious in this scenario – I might take the opportunity to not return. I might get away with it. At least for a little while. But it would all come back eventually, wouldn't it?_

Later -

_A full list of what I have borne and permitted would be a diary unto itself. A man is easily read when he is enraged, and so, in short, I have carried a veritable plague of bruisings in my time. I am also not optimistic enough to believe I am done. Shootings, stabbings, beatings, these are all my lot. I am astonished that my nose remains as straight as it does. Being taken hostage via kidney, that, I confess, had real imagination to it._

_But a microwaveable pastry? Astonishing! Two feet to my left and high. I watched it slide down the wall via the corner of my eye's range of vision, and, bemused, could only realize that if the sodium content was not but one way to ensure death, surely the lava-like consistency might have finished the job!_

_Well done, H, you might have succeeded where others have failed! A pity then that you had to take S quite so literally. At least I do retain a very good lawyer, though you'll not thank me for it._

_And neither will she._

_* * * *_

Hard to keep an arm from itching when bound up tight in a sling. Ben ignored it, drawing upon his thinning reservoir of will. His plan had worked, the temptation avoided, the plane awaited. He rifled through the still half-empty book with his uninjured hand, expression blank but for the intense blue gaze. From time to time, a muscle jumped in his jawline as he reread familiar longhand scrawls. The homeless men who thought to claim the burning can of garbage felt it wise to not draw too near.

Finally, in one smooth motion, he dropped the book into the fire. He watched it crackle for a moment, thin leather binding transforming into a heavier, rich smoke that left him disquieted. Then he walked away and never spared a look back. Fragments rose on the currents and drifted away to become ash, their words parted from context and become anonymous.

*

-a half-burnt page, unknown date-

_I'm so tired._

(ABC's LOST and its characters are not my creation, nor do I claim any ownership or rights to the above content beyond that of the average godforsaken fanfiction writer. All errors are my own.)


	2. Aspects

_2._

_Aspects_

_Like one_

_Who having unto truth, by telling of it,_

_Made such a sinner of his memory,_

_To credit his own lie.__ ~ Prospero_

And on the sixth day, God might have made Man, but Jack would be settling for old ghosts and a spring of fresh water. Not much of a road to Galilee here for poor Jack. He's decided not to see anymore, as much as possible, and what he _has_ seen, well, that's between him and his obviously slipping rationality. Snap out of it, he orders himself. Men of science are surely well served by the tangible, and here at least is the water, and the empty box of wood. He's shattered it out of frustration, and it felt like ending something that needed an ending. Maybe it wasn't, though.

There's a corpse around here somewhere, he's sure of it. No other discussion is necessary. So, then, it is back to camp for him and to let the others know what he found and then maybe everyone can stop being brats about the bottles. Coming up a week and he feels more like a world weary den-mother than anything else. Not much of a leader, despite what Locke pointed out. But maybe Jack doesn't have a choice. He shakes his head, thinking. The caves will be safer than the beach, maybe, and maybe some of the worst of the troublemakers will split up and away from each other.

He's keyed up, the rabbit-chase left him over alert and second-guessing himself. As he passes through tall grasses trying to wend back the way he came, the greenery rustles against him like whispers. Which is, of course, ridiculous. As is the sensation that he is being watched, always being watched.

John Locke's out of his mind, he figures. There's not much beauty here beyond the natural. Just jungles and empty coffins and his mind tries to correlate the two together, but he denies it. There's a lot of people back at the beach looking to him. Now's not a good time for morbidity.

A branch snaps, not under his own heel, and he whirls. There's that damn clicking sound again, but as his gaze flicks wildly, he sees nothing. Something's there, looking right at him, but right then, Jack isn't seeing a damn thing. The urge to flee, the sensible primal act of fight/flight still rises in him, though the sound fades away before he breaks into a full run. No, nothing but rustling grass. He didn't see a flash of something grey. Not after everything else he's gone through today.

Sure, he has no idea what the hell killed the pilot, but easier not to think very hard about that right now. Jack's got a lot of responsibilities. He's a doctor. Their lives are in his hands. He's gonna take that very, very seriously. Some of these folks are young, they need everything possible to make sure they survive until the rescue catches up to them.

He thinks of blonde little Claire, her belly all big, and his own stomach knots up. What if she births here? His pickings are mighty slim, and maybe women have been doing this for centuries without his hands and guidance, but right now, it's all on him. He's got to be the leader. He's got to be everything he found out his father wasn't. Jesus.

Jack nearly heaves, and chalks it up to the stress of the day. He's reaching the beach. Pretty soon he'll hear the bickering again, all that anger masking the real fear of the unknown. He stalks closer and closer and sure enough. He hears Boone, and Charlie, and Kate. He doesn't hear anything else.

Jack sees the shoving match start, and the words start to pour out of him. "Leave him alone," he starts. "It's been six days and we're all still waiting. Waiting for someone to come. But what if they don't? We have to stop waiting. We need to start figuring things out. A woman died this morning just going for a swim and he tried to save her, and now you're about to crucify him?"

For the jungle, the words begin to fade away. The wind rises and the eye of the island just watches.

That something grey is still standing there, amid the tall grass, looking after the doctor who left him behind. It's a little boy in a grey hoodie with a dark, dark hole in it, and he is standing very still and very quiet, and he will never, ever be seen by the very rational man with all the lives of the survivors in his hands. There are tears frozen on his pale face.

The grass rustles and whispers, again, the words the good doctor will never hear, never acknowledge. _"Why wouldn't you help me?"_

The wind rises again and then drops into silence and the little boy is gone, nothing more than half-remembered shadows. Less than a ghost, barely a wisp of memory, an aspect of something that can never be found again.


	3. Advent

_3._

_Advent_

_O Radix Jesse, qui stas in signum populorum,_

_super quem continebunt reges os suum,_

_quem Gentes deprecabuntur:_

_veni ad liberandum nos, jam noli tardare._

There is an immediate need for caution. He is still new to them, as yet untried under the weight of his new role, and the history of his predecessor drove deep scars into the patterns of island life. It might take a great deal of time and patience before his rule makes real headway. It's not like the ancient life, where a good chisel and some spare time means a king's name is wiped off the board. Pity, really. It would make things easier.

That said, Ben muses. If his gambits pay off, if his words strike bone, if he can push... just... right... well. It's a lot of 'ifs.' It will make for an unsettling life, even with the deck stacked in his favor. And there is still a child to consider. He pauses for a moment and reflects. No, he does not regret her adoption. There is much to come, and it will be small moments that must remind him of his own humanity. What he needs in all other regards to be is something else. Coldness. His lips purse as he watches flames flicker and die in the campfire. He amuses himself with a small notion of grandeur, wondering if every would be tyrant felt that so acutely – the need to separate, the necessity of being above, or more, even if one knew full well the costs, the heaviness of your own mortality.

Partly, he understands why Widmore sought warmth off the island. He might even envy it, a little. But Ben's used to being lonely, used to being the unwanted one. Save it for a time of introspection. There's other issues at hand.

At his feet, the bundle whimpers. Ben tears his thoughts to the present, takes his studied, intent gaze from the fire and drives it at the burlap. On the other side of the little pit stand three of his new confidants. He's wariest of Tom, but Tom's not up to anything right then but some cautious weight-shifting. Bea stands beside, waiting patiently, and then there's Isabel. He grimaces inwardly at the thought of her, though his face doesn't turn away from the squirming form in the large sack. There's a problem for another day in the shape of that severe woman, though he doesn't venture a guess how far off that day is. If he can hold it together now, then there's little this ersatz enforcer can do to threaten his position.

"Tom?" He knows the report, Ethan whispered it all to him earlier, but there are patterns that like following.

The burly man clears his throat. "Caught her going through the rest of Charles' stuff. Had a bundle of paperwork, a knife. Said, uh..." He paused, clearly uncomfortable. Bea gave him a sharp knock to the ribs with her elbow. Ben decided to let it pass as if unnoticed. "Said when we grabbed her up that we'd made a huge mistake lettin' you take over. Claimed Jacob ain't told anyone shit." He shrugged abruptly, then fell silent.

Ben let silence fill a long moment, then laid his words carefully over an even, modulated tone. "She dared to try and speak for Jacob." It's declarative, not a question. It has the effect he wanted – the burly man winces and Isabel's face turns in disapproval. Ben jerks his head up to regard the trio. "It isn't for me to judge or forgive," he starts, causing a ripple of surprise among the onlookers, whose eyes can be found glistening beyond the firelight. "Let the island speak to the matter, if it will." He smiles disarmingly, softening his brittle blue stare. "If I am such a mistake, then I will submit to the island's decision." The murmurs continue to rise – mutters argue whether his words are proper submission to Jacob, or some admission of weakness. There is no clear concurrence.

He gestures towards the burlap sack. "Take her into the deep jungle and let her go. If she survives the night, if she is not... taken, then she can do as she likes. Go free, take me captive until Widmore is returned -" at this his pauses and looks around at the shocked noises. "Well, obviously there has been a mistake if her crime is forgiven. What else can I suggest?" Ben smiles again, briefly. There is a time to play by fear, and that will be soon enough. For now, survival through doubt is the better sale.

He finishes. "But I believe the island will judge as I might feel, could I judge. Charles Widmore broke the rules. Jacob's wishes must stand." He enunciates the final words. They cannot deny Jacob, even though they might doubt Ben. The trio confers for a moment, and then it is Tom who picks up the burlap sack with a grunt. It will take a little while for him to make the trek inland, even with help. The woman in the sack – Ben decides that he will not ever again think of her name, pretends that he has in fact already forgotten it – whimpers slightly. He might have felt compassion for her fate, but he can't now. He gave that away the moment he put Widmore on a submarine. He allows himself a slight sigh, and looks at the shapes in the dark, each to each. He knows Ethan's eyes, and nods once, in seeming recognition. And he meets Richard's, whose dark gaze blinks at him not at all, and whose expression is grim and unreadable.

* * * *

It is past noon of the following day when the patrol returns with the broken body and the scraps of burlap. Ben's expression betrays no surprise, although he chooses to show the briefest hint of pity. The woman's body is beaten and torn, the brutality of her apparent judgement cast in ruby clarity. Many of the people – _his_ people now, he reminds himself – look at Ben now with no doubt left, no hesitation. The island's made its will clear, as far as they're concerned. They will stand with him. Perfect.

"It was Jacob's will," he murmurs softly, that hint of pity still coming through. One of the youths looks at him with sympathy. After all, who wants to send someone to their death? "Poor girl." He gestures in the direction of the temple, his expression compassionate. "Bury her, please. She was still one of us."

Ben turns away, for there is still much to do, and much to reorganize. The crowd drops behind, and then Ethan draws close, smiling. "You handled that well," says the younger man. Ben shoots him a dark look, then drops his glance to the man's hands and their dirty, ragged fingernails.

"Learn to clean your hands better." Ben shakes his head. "You can only be out hunting boar so many times."

Ethan laughs, and it's a sound that unnerves him, everything about Ethan has unnerved Ben at least once. There's a ragged copy of Puzo's 'The Godfather' in his bag, and the character of Luca Brasi succeeded in giving Ben one of his rarest acknowledged nightmares. Ben is relieved when Ethan breaks his course, leaving the young leader alone to hide inside his home. Alex is playing outside, and Ben is free to pull the ragged wooden doll from its hiding place.

"Happy birthday to me," Ben mutters to himself. "I've gone and ensured myself a throne." His tone tastes sour in his own mouth. He puts the doll away again and pours himself a drink, his thoughts ticking away in the warm dark while the childish strains of "Ring a Ring o' Roses" repeats outside. The song chills him for a moment, and then he steels himself again against it, and against all emotions. He can do little more.

_~Fin_

(ABC's LOST and its characters are not my creation, nor do I claim any ownership or rights to the above content beyond that of the average godforsaken fanfiction writer. All errors are my own. The Latin text is an O antiphon used in the Catholic advent tradition and corresponds to December 19th. Translation is handily available on Wiki and the use of its Latin version makes me look all snooty and edumacated, which _is such a lie_ that it's unreal)

2009/15/4 - MDS


	4. Shattered

4.

Shattered

_I, thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated_

_To closeness, and the bettering of my mind. ~ Prospero_

Ben did not think about the news he had just been delivered – his tumor, improbably nestled around his spine. It was terrifying to comprehend in the face of all he believed, so he didn't try. He simply shoved it aside, clinically, for later study. Instead, abstractly, he thought about being shouted at. About being accused of untruths, when he had gone above and beyond his duty to be as truthful and gentle with Juliet as possible. And it had availed him nothing, not even after trying to dismiss what had gone on with Goodwin. He felt sick and more than a little betrayed. If she knew what any attempt at kindness cost him! His jaw clenched, though he paid that no mind. His thoughts rattled, an abstraction formed into something more concrete. He would simply have to give her evidence. The thought was sour, he was not required to justify himself to the others, and to do so for her... again, she had no idea of the costs incurred.

At least Richard was already off island. It cut some time. Ben would have to call out to him later on and make the arrangements. Richard would not be pleased by his decision, but it would go no further than the three of them. He could bear that much – so long as word of this incident did not stretch beyond them.

Ben remained in his home's office until the sound of Juliet's sobs had lapsed into silence. He rose from his desk and stood framed in a doorway until the faint click of her departure reached him. He waited another moment, and then another, for certainty's sake, and then slipped down the hall to observe the darkening kitchen, the light catching in the pool of water, and the spray of broken glass.

He caught himself staring at the largest shards for a long time, thoughts slipping away before he could grasp at them. He turned away and found himself a small bin for trash, and bent to start the process of cleaning things up. He kept his thoughts carefully blank, shoving away the sick feeling, shoving away the dull, throbbing sensation in his back. That put a frustrated snarl on his face for the barest moment, and then calm again replaced it. He did not feel particularly calm, but he could force it, pretend long enough to make it reality. So he tried, hard enough that he believed that it had worked.

Ben paused, the largest of the pieces caught between his fingers. The bottom of it was heavy, it was comprised of most of the base of what had once been a drinking glass. He looked into it, seeing the floor distorted through it, seeing his misshapen face caught in it in a glimmer. Alone. Different. As usual.

His face contorted again and his hand clenched in response. An edge of the glass tore into his thumb and he sucked in his breath, expression replaced with surprise. Ben dropped the glass into the bin as if it were a snake that had struck out, and sunk down to the floor. He pulled himself into a cross-legged position, hunched over like a weary, petulant child. His breath exhaled, shakily, and he raised his uninjured hand to his face to hide the tears that had suddenly sprung up. He inhaled again, still frustrated with himself, and caught a sob before it could escape.

He did not permit himself to think on why he cried, for he knew it was not from pain, but instead fought against the images that filled his mind. He did not acknowledge the desperate word that passed through his thoughts – _Mom! - _and he did not allow himself to believe that he wept for everything 'normal' that he wanted that he realized, suddenly, he would never have. There would be no room for closeness. Not for him. Not for as long as he served his woeful little utopia.

A second sob struggled against him, and then it was something new he fought against and not sorrow. The clinical disengagement failed him, and the terror came back. A tumor, in this place? Why? _How had he failed?_

"Jacob, you son of a bitch, I have done everything you have ever asked!" he hissed to the empty kitchen. There was no response, much as Ben expected. The blood that had been running down Ben's thumb pooled heavily into a fat drop that hung for a moment, perfect, before falling to his bent knee. Another drop began to form. Ben took no notice. His eyes were closed behind his hand, willing the moisture there to not do the same. Willing it to remain deniable.

He sat there for a long time, trying to erase the past hour from his mind. His thumb continued to bleed, accusatory, a simple proof that he could not really succeed. It would not need stitches, his thumb, but it would help to leave its own kind of scar.

* * * *

When Ben finally pulled his hand away from his face, it was full dark. The water had dried, as had his eyes. Glass still littered the floor. Pieces of it caught against the leg of his trousers, glinting in dim moonlight. He looked at them, blandly. He felt cold again, properly so. He tilted his head, acknowledging his internal restoration of balance. Juliet was now as she must be – simply one of _them. _The things he had felt for her were shut away. They were inconvenient. They had been a distraction. Perhaps that was what Jacob had permitted this affliction for. He had veered away. He had let himself act for personal reasons. He -

The lights of Ben's home flicked on, and he jerked himself upright, lithely, ignoring the spasm in his back as he did so. He blinked quickly, trying to adjust himself to the light in case of threat.

"Dad?" came a hesitant, untrusting voice.

"Alex," he responded immediately, his tone flat and neutral. "I'm sorry, I lost myself in some thought."

She came around the corner, bent slightly, ready to flee. "In the dark?" She dropped her gaze to the glass still scattered on the floor and to the forming scab on his thumb and her lips parted questioningly. Ben swallowed heavily, feeling his balance begin to waver again. He narrowed his eyes and Alex paused in her steps.

"In the dark. It was an important matter," he said. His tone was brisk, cutting off further discussion. He glanced down, clenching his fist and pulling the injury from her view. "You shouldn't worry about it. I assume you were with Karl." His tone dropped into disapproval.

Alex visibly recoiled, then rolled her eyes and turned away, obviously disgusted. It seemed his every conversation with her tried to fall into anti-Karl rhetoric, but Ben couldn't help himself. Alex sighed at him from over her shoulder. "It doesn't matter, Dad."

"We have something to discuss." Unsteadiness threatened to creep into Ben's tone again. He felt the need to reach out, somehow, find some sort of acceptance. Get a grip on the fear. Juliet was lost to him, but he still had Alex, he believed.

"I'm really not in the mood for it now." And with that, Alex stomped down the hall and shut her door against him. Locking him out.

Ben's hands shook despite his self-control. Anger warred with a sudden, fresh burst of abandoned anguish. He allowed the anger to win out of necessity, and shoved the trashbin into a corner with a curse. He would clean up the rest of the shattered glass tomorrow.

First he would go back to his office and restore the rest of his shattered self. Or at least pretend all was restored. It would be enough. It would make it so.

No one would see him as anything more than he wished them to see ever again. He would not permit that closeness. It incurred costs he didn't like to pay.

~_Fin_

(ABC's LOST is not my creation, nor do I claim any ownership or rights to the above content beyond that of the average godforsaken fanfiction writer. All errors are my own.)

2009/27/4 - MDS


	5. Penitent

5.

Penitent

_"Loose me from my sin as from a bond that binds me. May my life swell the stream of your river of Right."_ ~ Rig Veda Samhita 2.28.5

The boy's legs were too short to touch ground from his seat on the wood and iron bench, and so his feet swung back and forth with the idle grace of those still too young to embrace self-consciousness. His shoes made faint flopping noises, a size too large, clearly sounding out their history as a hand me down. A hot Vegas breeze ruffled his dark blonde hair, already messy and unkempt. He tapped his fingers on a beaten plastic Mickey Mouse lunchbox, the tune without any rhythm. After a little while of this, he brought his head up to look at the short man seated next to him. "I'm not gonna go to school today!" he blurted.

The man examined the blonde little boy for a long time, blue eyes half lidded in speculation. They had sat together a half hour in silence, the boy waiting for a bus that refused to appear and the man simply there. "Why not?"

"I don't wanna. 'Sides, nobody _cares." _The boy stuck his tongue out at the grownup. "Jess doesn't care, Mom doesn't care, the other kids don't care." He dropped his head again, staring at Micky Mouse. Mickey stared back with an idiot's smile. "I wish I were with Dad."

Long, long pause. Down the street, the overdue bus began to churn noisily towards the duo. "Where is your father?"

The boy didn't answer until the bus pulled up in front of the bench. He whirled on the man and said, "He's _dead."_ Then he fled up the three steps and disappeared into a mass of near-rioting children.

The man sat and watched the bus depart. When it was gone from sight, he rose to go about his other business.

* * * *

The next morning, the man was already seated on the rusty bench when the boy arrived. The man looked tired, and there was a fresh cut below his ear. It glistened slightly, coated with Neosporin or some similar generic. He nodded amiably at the boy, who sat down on the bench next to him without any sign of fear. "Good morning."

The boy looked curiously at the injury. "My dad would come home looking worse than that."

"I'm sure."

"You an adbuctor?"

"Am I a _what?" _He cocked his head at the boy, who fiddled absently with bruised red plastic hinges.

"You know. The bad men. They steal kids and do stuff to them. They tell us about 'em in school. Stranger danger." The boy rolled his eyes. The man arched an eyebrow, his slightly off-center mouth twisted into amused bewilderment.

"I almost don't know how to answer that," he said at last. "But I would prefer to think of myself as one of the good guys." He shrugged. "In any case, no. I am not going to 'adbuct' you."

"Darn." He grinned at the man's outright look of disbelief. "My dad taught me a couple things to do to protect myself. I wanted to see if they worked."

"You should not ever try to get yourself into a fight. Physical violence is a last resort. Think your way out, first."

"That's _boring._ My dad was, like, a ninja! I bet he coulda beaten up _your _dad."

"On your average weeknight, a hydrocephalic midget could have taken my father in a fight." The man sounded contemplative, if a little sad. "I'm informed that certain actors are a better comparative assessment for this sort of thing."

The boy sounded out the larger words, eventually puzzling something relevant out. "My dad liked John Wayne."

"Well, there you go. _The Quiet Man,_ perhaps."

"Did he die in that one?"

The man laughed. "No. It's about a man that decides he's never going to fight again and goes home to Ireland."

"_Boooo-ring!"_

"Actually, it has a very good fight scene towards the end. It's rather philosophical, really. Sometimes you must fight, if there's something you want very badly. It's also about sometimes being stronger if you don't fight. Well, as I thought. I haven't watched it in a while." The boy made a rude face at him. The man ignored it.

"Anyway! My dad could probably have beaten up John Wayne!"

"What did your father do?" The query was polite.

"He was a hero! He'd get hired by people and go beat up bad guys!"

The man nodded tiredly. "He'd tell you about his job?"

"He told me some stories." The boy bent his head again and resumed fiddling with his box. Loose-shod feet swung, thudding against the bottom of the bench. "Mostly he said he'd tell me when I was older. Jess got told more of them, but he had to promise not to tell. Guess we're never gonna hear anymore." He sniffled abruptly. "He didn't come back. Something went wrong. The old man said the job wasn't honnad or something and that he wasn't gonna pay. I hated him. He was mean and he sounded funny on the phone."

The man sighed. "I see."

"Jess is still mad. He wanted to kill the old guy." He thought about it. His big brother was smart, really really smart, and he had been so _angry._

"I very much doubt he is alone in that." Dry humor. It was lost on the boy.

"Dad was gonna use the money for us. For Jess and his school and stuff."

"They say no one is purely evil in the world." The man looked off, his gaze unfocused. "I'm not sure I believe that, but it's not up to me."

"You talk weird."

"Mm."

"Why are you sitting here?"

"I wanted to talk to you."

The boy stared up at the man. Down the street, the bus began its slow approach. "Why? I'm nobody." Silence as a reply. "What's your name?"

"Benjamin."

"Okay." The boy hopped off the bench. "See you tomorrow, Benjamin!"

"Yes."

"I'm Martin!" And he fled into the cacophonic bus.

"Yes," Ben said to no one in particular. "I know."

* * * *

Martin hesitated before taking his place next to Ben. The cut below the ear had already started a clean heal, but there were rough marks along the man's throat and his fingers were bruised and torn in spots. "Now you look a little like my dad."

"That's... nice." Ben flexed his hands experimentally. "I should probably have gotten the brace," he muttered absently.

"I thought you said fighting was bad."

"Yes, and sometimes it happens anyway." Ben shrugged, then winced. "You can learn a lot in a fight, too."

"Did something to your back, huh?"

"It's business."

Martin thought for a long time. "Did you work with my dad?" Long silence. "Sometimes his friends would come. Nobody looked like you, though. They were all big. They'd swear a lot. But they were nice to us."

Finally: "I met him."

The boy wiggled, excited. "Was it one of his jobs? Was it cool? Did he-"

"It wasn't like that." Ben's tone went sharp and the boy stiffened. Ben sighed and tried again. "It didn't go very well, I'm afraid. I'm sorry."

The boy's lips knotted up. "You mean his last job."

"...Yes. I'm sorry."

"_I don't wanna talk to you anymore!"_ And with that, the boy leaped from the bench and ran off crying. He never looked back.

"I'm very sorry," sighed Ben. "Just not for what I did." He shifted his weight, then winced again. "Damn." Something bleated in his pocket and he fished the Nokia out. "Yes?" He listened for a long time. "Good. Yes. I'm done here. There will be no problems with those arrangements?"

Another pause.

"Excellent. Thank you, Mr. Norton."

* * * *

Three weeks later, Martin sat alone on the old bench. His shoes thudded together, a new pair of Converse. Mickey was the same, and his fingers slid across the box's battered surface. Sometimes he'd pick a fingernail at the corner of the paper image. There was a note inside the box. Martin didn't understand it all, but he was supposed to deliver it to his teacher. Next week, Martin would be going to a new school. A very nice one, his mother had told him, crying. Jess had also been crying. Martin didn't understand that, either. His big brother never cried, and that had scared the boy. Jess had given him a big hug, too. That was just weird. Jess was also going to be going to a new school, Martin had gathered. Didn't know why that was such a big deal, school sucked and nobody liked you. But Jess had been real happy. It had to do with a school-ship, and a big old place with lots of ivy on it or something.

Martin didn't get the ivy thing. He saw the pictures of the place, all brick and stone and it was really really far away. And there wasn't a bit of real ivy on the place! But their mom was happy. "I told your daddy there'd be a Keamy that didn't have to beat his way in life!" she'd yelled after getting a big special letter. Martin had gotten used to being confused. He was a kid, nobody owed him explanations.

Martin kinda wished he could see Benjamin again. The weird man had been really smart. Maybe he could have explained all this to Martin, and Martin could have said he was sorry for being mean. "Sorry, Benjamin," the boy muttered to empty air. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

The bus was coming, and Martin felt a little spark of hope. Maybe things really were going to get better. He didn't know why, but that was all right. Sometimes you just had to go forward and find out.

_~fin_

(ABC's LOST and its characters are not my creation, nor do I claim any ownership or rights to the above content beyond that of the average godforsaken fanfiction writer. All errors are my own.)


	6. Evergreen

_**Evergreen**_

"_The chessboard is the world, the pieces are the phenomena of the __Universe, the rules of the game are what we call the laws of Nature, and the player on the other side is hidden from us." ~ Thomas Huxley_

There are always two players in the game, one light and one dark.

The game is always worth studying, even if he doesn't understand the most esoteric aspects of it. He's mimicked it against multiple opponents – against Jack, who didn't understand the import of him taking the black pieces_ (Anderssen did, it was the way then. dark that moved first, just color to color, the light's advantage came later)_;against Tom, who held no patience and understood defeat after the eighth move; against Richard, who held the patience if not the tactics. Each derailed; Ben could not maintain the structure to the fourteenth move so that he could study it properly.

Beautiful sacrifice, and the lead to a double check. He could see it, could use it, but did not entirely understand it. He contrasted the tactics with the other, more famous game – the immortal one. Again, sacrifice, and assuming control of a developed situation with an inferior force. The astonishing win that destroyed a queen to accomplish it. It unsettles him, that amount of sacrifice. Ben is uncomfortable with giving that much away. To fail in such a tactic would ensure the bettor's destruction. He admires the courage Anderssen showed in his games, and thinks of Fischer's declaration that the game itself is but war on a board. Sacrifice was crucial for war. What can an enemy win if you're willing to give it all? Still. Terrifying, when you have so little to give to begin with. Little that is yours. _(I gave you everything, Jacob.)_

Pawns were always to be reckoned with. He could take that away from the table after each match, clearly understanding its fundamental truth. Even the pawn in the weakest position could be dangerous in time, if not prepared for. If not watched. He could do that, prepare. And yet, there were always surprises. Those he had to scramble after. Those scramblings did not have the structure that made him feel safe. He was always displeased with himself when the game fell to instinct and chaos. As if there was clearly something he missed.

~*~

Keamy's outside. He's inside. The others bitch, it's a distraction and he ignores it. Sawyer discusses sacrifice and _that _draws his attention back a little_. (I'm trying to __help__ you. rabbits, Lenny, rabbits.) _This is the moment. His blue eyes flick around the room, darkened in rapid thought. His chin rests against the butt of a rifle.

He's thinking of the game. How much will be wagered? How much can be won – if something else is lost? He hates to think on it, but he's prepared ahead as best he can. Everyone who counts is surely safe, behind their own lines. Here he is, knight sacrifice. He can move, he could wager everything and step forward, if he dares. All he has to do is walk out of the house. All he has to do is give up everything that he has. If he can do that, then there is nothing Charles can truly win.

And then the game changes.

Beautiful sacrifice, the young queen. _(no, please, no. I didn't choose this!) _Ben knows devastation now, of the gambit broken and scattered. In rage, he clears the board knowing that he'll have to begin anew in its wake. Knowing there will likely be more cost. He leaves Keamy and his men shattered and dying. Meanwhile, his opponent has taken what he did not want to sacrifice and forced him to lose the rest anyway. It's a horror to him, and he doesn't understand.

And there's that sense again, as he kisses his daughter's forehead in the only goodbye he'll have time to give. Was there something he missed?

~*~

It's all been on his instincts since. Ben's plans go only from moment to moment, leading from desert to city and then back, somehow, to island. He's got that back, sort of. He didn't, deep down, really want it. Or maybe he did. He doesn't understand, sometimes both sides are just one player. But he's got this much, island ground under his feet again. Something familiar, and he thinks of a body held in its soft grip; a body he's seen recently much, to his dismay and shame. It's the rest of the surprise that's got him moving fast again, a timed game against another player. He's in thrall, and he hates it. Nothing he can do – costs paid, the board reset, and now he's nothing more than Locke's favorite new pawn.

But pawns are to be reckoned with. The question he doesn't understand – who's the dark and who's the light? Which one is he? Does it even matter, or they all just colors on a board?

Locke is telling him things he didn't want to hear, didn't want to think about. He thought he was serving the light, but now he's unsure. He's unsettled, and it's all just part of another immortal's game. It's risky, giving a pawn a knife and sending it after the win, fighting for the checkmate, but Locke's doing it to him anyway.

He could turn on Locke; he's done it before. But he won't this time. Now it's against the rules. (_does that really matter? could I dare? do I even have a choice?)_ He feels trapped, cornered into barrows of his own make, all his gambits turned against him.

A few hours later, and the body's at his feet. His skin tingles like it never has before, with the rich, ripe smell of blood all around him, and there's a crawling horror in his belly. Is this what it is to take the king off the board? To have taken part in the destruction of something so much larger than yourself?

Ben looks at Locke – is it Locke? _(what do I see? chiaroscuro light and dark, what is going on? Richard, why haven't you ever told me anything?) _ And he understands the game, its field cleared again, in one bleak moment.

Two sides. One light and one dark, but it doesn't matter. All pawns, but for the kings.

He has always been outmatched.

~_fin_

(ABC's LOST and its characters are not my creation, nor do I claim any ownership or rights to the above content beyond that of the average godforsaken fanfiction writer. All errors are my own.)

8/7/09 MDS


	7. Fragmented

_Fragmented_

"_This misshapen knave - his mother was a witch..." ~ Prospero_

* * *

_ Things proceed. A great many entries might be summed up this way; simpler than the Goldberg intricacies I weave to obscure what is really going on. A man is moved, another, then another. I watch them all as best I can and they do not know it. It is like the hatch again, then. Behind a closed door, my shoulder on fire, I still observed. Nothing simpler. Now the hatch is the world itself, the door between each of us a throng of people._

_ It doesn't make them – or me – any safer. A door's just a door, a transition between one place and another, and it's easily moved out of one's way. Cold comfort that there had been little need for a door to be opened. Until now. And now JL is __my__ door. Was. Is. I don't know, but what he set in motion I can use. He came to Los Angeles to die and so he did. My contribution is minimal._

_ Whatever happened, happened._

_ EH knows that very well._

_~*~  
_

(flick, flick goes the page)

~*~

_ Is the island a panopticon or is it the entire world? And if J is watching, what is the purpose? Still, and still I question too much out here. Reminders of doubt. I want to go home, or so I tell myself. I march as they do, towards something that cannot be commanded but only obeyed. There is no choice._

~*~

(flick, flick)

~*~

_I remember a dream I had when I was very young. It's one of the few things that I have left from before the island. Everything else is vague wisps; the voice of some distant relative reduced to a garbled hum, a flash of garish color, the scent of something sweet, like forest loam. Was that the cemetery? Was I ever taken to see her? I can't remember anymore. Can't picture it. If I ever saw her grave then my memory can only picture the island's charnel pit._

_ But I remember that dream._

_ It was a mirror – or maybe it was a thin wall of water, it doesn't matter in a dream – and in it I saw myself as an adult. Here it played a trick on me; there was no real face to recall, nothing for me to say ah! so that's what I will look like. Just me, knowing it was me, and half of this future's face was ruined._

_ That had detail, that I remember. Scars that looped and curled along the throat and cheek like whorls in an ancient, flaking tree. Some were older than others, healed into a kind of elegant pattern. Others were deep and scabbed, an ugly dark brown. My lip was pulled down very slightly from one of these, forever dour, and the scar that ran from it disappeared somewhere under my chin. They miss the eye only barely, these marks either of strange fire or claw or both, although some jagged, horrible thing marked the bridge of my nose. Like something's talons had just begun to pull away before tearing it fully off._

_ Dream, not nightmare. It was like having half of me put permanently in shadow, or a mask. I found it easier to look at than the normal side, like each little line had a story that could be told. Didn't matter if it was true, just a story that you could fall into and not come out again. And I reached out to touch this other face, put my fingers to that mirror, and then there was nothing but cold. I began to smile, half my face feeling like it was gone, and that was it._

_ I woke up with my hand pressed against the wood floor of my first home. And my face, wedged against a pillow so heavily that it would be marked with it. Just that, simple marks._

_ I remember being disappointed. Nothing else from those years. Just disappointment._

_ Suppose that too is a fair summary of things._

~*~

(flick, flick)

_ ~*~_

_Did they leave her to rot? I would give anything to know. I dreamt they left her among the bones, that Dharma ossuary (and his skull, how was his skull there? We left him to wither where he fell, not with them) and that the thing in the jungle came to eat her. I heard the smacking and cracking sounds of it and when I woke up my pil...~ (_unfinished, scratched, marked out)

_ No._

~*~

(flick, flick)

_ ~*~_

_I'll steal that one, too, and be damned for it. A girl and a boy, whisked off from their mothers because of the island. Because of me. Like Eden, but cursed, and all the names of the beasts are the names of secret sin. The apple's wormed but it'll taste like honey right up till the moment one bursts against your lips and you taste the infection._

_ And you'll eat anyway, eat it all up because someone told you to._

~*~

(flick, flick)

_ ~*~_

_Isn't a one of us that place hasn't ruined. I'll tell people it is salvation and that we do our hidden 'god's' work, but lying is what I do. I should be a Catholic, then, and tell Thomas to go forth and fear no more. What God needs a feeble thing like what we all are? No wonder he doesn't speak. Why should he?_

_ But he did once. I didn't hear it, but he did. What does that mean?  
_

~*~

(flick, flick)

_ ~*~_

_Only a madman will write my elegy when this is over._

~*~

(It falls shut)

_~Fin_

_(ABC's LOST is not my creation, nor do I claim any ownership or rights to the above content beyond that of the average godforsaken fanfiction writer. All errors are my own. Shards will continue – if they do or must – in a new collection.)_

2009/13/11 MDS


End file.
